


To Die and Be Again

by anathemagerminabunt



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-14 08:14:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anathemagerminabunt/pseuds/anathemagerminabunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>As long as you are not aware of the continual law of Die and Be Again, you are merely a vague guest on a dark Earth. —Johann Wolfgang von Goethe</i><br/> <br/>Sherlock returns from the events in Reichenbach Falls to find that John is married. Neither man is pleased with the circumstances and both must come to terms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Die and Be Again

**Author's Note:**

> For [burning-breakfast](http://burning-breakfast.tumblr.com) for the gift exchange on [johnlockchallenges](http://johnlockchallenges.tumblr.com).

Every Sunday, John makes his way through London to visit Sherlock. At first his trips were far more frequent and even now, nearly three years after that terrible morning, John often returns more than once a week. But every Sunday, come rain or shine, he makes the trek through the city to Sherlock's gravesite. It is only within the last eight months that he has had company.

“I should talk with the caretaker again,” Mary remarks, the disapproval in her voice doing something both painful and marvelous to John's chest. “The state of things is despicable.”

“The flowers look wonderful,” he replies as she sinks to her knees and begins the strenuous task of clearing the weeds from the front of the headstone. “I don't know how you manage to keep them flourishing like this.”

Mary glances over her shoulder, smiling. “Green thumb, I suppose. It's a gift.”

Despite the fact that she never knew the man in life, Mary has been diligent about maintaining Sherlock's grave. It is Mary that has planted the flowers, Mary that has spent hours scrubbing away that stupid, stupid graffiti, Mary that has rowed herself hoarse with the cemetery caretaker. It is Mary who has done all these things because she knows, without having to hear the words, what this dead man still means to John and therefore means to her. This fact, more than anything, is what caused John to fall so utterly and completely in love with her.

At this thought, he is reminded of that moment two months earlier, when she approached him with a smile and bright eyes to inform him that she was late. His stomach turns.

“He would have hated this fuss. Thought it ordinary and mundane or something, I suppose,” John mutters, watching her work.

“Well,” she tells the headstone, “you can just deal with it, then.”

He smiles, though it doesn't entirely reach his eyes, and twenty minutes later she stands and retreats toward the main path, instinctively giving him the moment alone that he needs.

“Christ,” he mutters, glancing skyward. “I'd love to see what you'd make of a woman like that, Sherlock. She's bloody remarkable, you know.”

John lightly traces the engraved name before nodding and turning to join his waiting wife.

***

Three years' time has left Baker Street much the same. There are little changes, of course-- this vendor no longer in business, that shop front remodeled, and so on-- but the majority of the four block radius of 221B is exactly as Sherlock remembers.

His chest clenches painfully at this realization as he circles toward the flat. Three years' time has also left Sherlock with the ingrained habit of reconnaissance before entering any building, and despite the relatively new safety of which he finds himself in possession, Sherlock is unable to resist the urge.

It is nearly a half hour since climbing the stairs from the Tube to the street before Sherlock finally-- _finally_ \-- inconspicuously picks the locks to 221B and enters the old, familiar foyer.

He steps inside, closing the door carefully before allowing himself his first real look of the place. Almost immediately, there is a thudding roar in his head and a rush of blood in his veins, threatening to send Sherlock crashing to the floor. He reaches an arm out to steady himself against the wall, taking a moment to allow the world to right itself once more.

It is then that he hears it. “John? John, sweetheart, is that you?”

Sherlock inhales sharply.

There are light footsteps ( _central balance, nearly ten stone, 5'6”_ ) pounding down the stairs quicker than he can react to in his current state, and within seconds, black heels ( _size six, less than a month old, worn primarily in an office, out in rain recently_ ) are stepping into view. “John, did you go to the computer place? Only they called and said that if you want to pick up--”

She stops six steps from the bottom, colour draining quickly from her face. For a long moment, they merely stare at one another. Sherlock uses the time to learn what he can about this mysterious woman in their-- _John's_ \-- flat, immersing himself in the details that proclaim her to be a primary schoolteacher, in her mid-thirties, a bottled blonde, only child of deceased parents, and wearing a recently acquired, white gold w-- _oh_.

“Oh god,” she breathlessly mutters. “Oh my god, you can't be. John--”

Heart hammering, lungs compressing and vision swimming, Sherlock turns on his heel and stumbles out the door into the street.

A recently acquired, white gold wedding ring. _Married_.

Sherlock ceases thought immediately.

***

“You can't be serious,” John repeats, arm still stretched mid-air to pull down two mugs. “You can't-- why are you saying this?”

“John, I-” Mary winces and steps closer, moving a kitchen chair out of the way. “I'm serious. I'm utterly, completely serious. I _saw_ him.”

John drops his arm. “Why are you saying this?” He throws his shoulders back, straightening. “Is this a joke? This is sick, Mary, absolutely sick.”

“John--”

“No,” he snaps, wrenching away from her touch. “ _No._ This is some sick, horrible joke you concocted to, I don't know. I don't care why. I don't want to hear any more.”

Mary's expression crumples, her eyes darting quickly over his. “I—”

“No!” John's voice will _not_ break, damn it. Swallowing thickly, he tightens his jaw and grits out, “See, I know it's a joke because he's dead. He's dead, Mary, and I watched him die. I buried him, for Christ's sake! Sherlock is _dead_ , not-- not standing in our building, not chatting with you, none of it. He. Is. Dead.” He must be, because John saw it happen with his own eyes, he watched his best friend and-- his best friend _die_ , and not even fucking Sherlock would do something like this to him. “He's...”

Despite his best efforts to remain stoic, John falters and clutches at the counter as his leg gives out. He can't speak, his vision growing blurry and breaths hitching, though his mind is too busy whirling with half-formed thoughts for speech anyway.

“Oh, John,” Mary murmurs, closing the distance between them to pull him into her arms. “I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.”

John doesn't respond.

***

“Married.” The disdain in Sherlock's voice is obvious, dripping heavily with every syllable.

“Ah,” Mycroft replies. “Yes, I thought you might care to know.”

Sherlock snaps his head up from where he sits, half-swallowed by the armchair. “You _thought_ I-- well, so nice of you to warn me!”

Mycroft cocks an eyebrow at the word choice, though he lets it slide for now. “You'll recall, Sherlock, that I did advise you to meet with me first before gallivanting through the city. You've been missing for a long time and things have changed. Some more than others, of course. The situation calls for--”

“You should have told me.”

“I should have done no such thing,” Mycroft shoots back. “You couldn't afford distractions, not with the importance of the task you'd undertaken. You wanted to be informed of his health and wellbeing-- I did just that. This was merely a superfluous detail.”

Sherlock jumps to his feet, roaring, “ _Superfluous?_ You call his _marriage_ to a--” He cuts off, unable to complete the thought. “Damn it, you should have told me. I-I should have known.”

“You know now,” Mycroft replies after a long pause. “Which begs the question of what you intend to do with the knowledge.” In a twisted echo of compassion, he loops around the sofa to stand directly before his brother and say, “He's moved on, Sherlock. By all accounts, he's happy. Are you going to demolish that for your own selfish needs?”

“Shut up,” Sherlock snaps, though the fight is no longer in him. He runs a hand through his hair, casting a glance toward the doorway. “I'm taking the guest room for the night. Don't disturb me.” Without another look, he shuffles out of the room, tired and defeated, pausing only to add, “You've grown disgustingly fat in the time I've been gone. It looks horrible on you.”

Shoulders slumped, he leaves.

***

“John, please,” Mary begs, tears in her eyes.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair and tugging lightly. After a moment, once he's sure he can keep his temper in check, he tells her, “I can't. Not right now, I just... I need to get out.”

She purses her lips, nodding. “Alright. Will you call me, later?”

He murmurs in assent, ripping his jacket off the back of the door and striding out of the flat. The stairs are firm under his shoes, and he takes satisfaction in the way he slams down them, heedless of the noise he's making. For good measure, he slams the door behind him as he exits onto the street, pausing for a moment to let out a few harsh breaths through his nose. Eventually, jaw tense and teeth gritted in an effort to keep from screaming, he flags down the first cab he sees, thrusting money at the driver and barking out an address. Thankfully, the man leaves him alone to his whirling silence during the drive, speaking only to announce their arrival.

John exits the cab, makes his way into the pub, and orders the largest glass of lager that he can manage.

It's not often that he turns to alcohol when emotionally compromised, for reasons beyond just his genetic predisposition, but certain times call for it. Times like finding out your best friend and the only man you've ever loved isn't quite so dead after all.

It takes a few hours, but by the end, John is rip-roaringly drunk. He fumbles through his wallet for a card he's long ignored, staggers outside, and hails three police cars and a bus before finally managing a cab.

Mycroft is long overdue a visit.

***

There have been times in his life when Sherlock would have given an appendage to turn his mind off, to silence the whirling and churning, to keep his mental gears from achingly grinding against one another.

Not a single one of those moments can hold a candle to now.

He's in one of Mycroft's pristine guest rooms, sprawled across a ludicrously plush bed, staring at the ceiling and seeing nothing but small bands of white gold. For nearly three full years, Sherlock has kept himself going, has maintained his nearly impossible task, thanks to the simple thought that one day he would return home. Over and over again, he imagined returning to 221B, walking through the door, and finding John there. In some scenarios, things erupted in physical violence. In others, John wept. In even fewer, allowed only during Sherlock's darkest and loneliest hours, they exchanged endless touches and kisses in an effort to assure themselves of their mutual reality.

In none of them was John married. In none of them had he moved on with his life.

Stupid, _stupid_.

Wrapped up in his thoughts as he is, it isn't until the sounds of yelling and scuffling reach the hall that Sherlock is even aware of them. He sits up slowly, warily eying the locked door. For the moment, the shouting is still too far away to be distinct, but he can tell that it's growing closer by the second. Rising to his feet, he makes it halfway across the room before the blood in his veins turns to ice.

“I don't care what you fucking have to say, do you get that? I don't give one fucking toss, so get out of my way, Mycroft, or I _will_ make you!”

“John, be reasonable--”

“Ha! Like you've any idea of the concept. You say he's here? For the last time, fucking _move!_ ”

Sherlock scans the room for a suitable exit or hiding place. The window looks the most promising, despite a drop of more than fifteen feet. He makes it no more than a few steps when the pounding begins.

“Get your arse out here, Sherlock Holmes! Get your bloody, fucking arse out here, or I swear to god--” There is no time for John to complete his threat before the door swings open, crashing into the wall.

_Damn you, Mycroft._

As far as Sherlock is concerned, at that first look of John ( _hair nearly five centimeters longer with fifteen percent more grey, new lines formed around his mouth like parentheses, new jacket, old jeans with a new hole forming_ ), the first meeting of their eyes ( _bluer than remembered, but glazed and unfocused_ ), all time stops. All this time, he's clung desperately to the sharp image of John in his mind's eye, but it has had nothing on this: John, standing before him, chest rising and falling quickly, face red, fists clenched tightly at his side so that only the whites of his knuckles show.

 _John_.

Sherlock quickly glances away, unable to bear more. He scrambles for something to say, anything, but words fail him in this moment.

“You _fucking_ arsehole,” John spits and oh, his voice.

Sherlock winces.

“You fucking,” John takes a step closer, the both of them ignoring the audience of Mycroft and household staff hovering in the corridor, “goddamn,” another step, “bloody,”, closer and closer, and Sherlock should move, _needs_ to move, but he's frozen to the spot, “inconsiderate,” only mere feet away now, “ _arsehole!_ ”

Though he sees it coming long before it happens, Sherlock forces himself to remain still and take the powerful punch to his jaw.

***

“Get out,” John snarls over his shoulder, eyes flashing some of the heat coiling through him. “Everyone, right now. Get out.” To his surprise, Mycroft obeys, turning to gesture the others away and leaving with nothing more than one last look into the room.

For a long moment, he and Sherlock stand in silence.

“John,” he begins, the baritone startling in its familiarity. “I--”

“Don't.” Flexing his left hand, John shakes his head minutely. “Don't you even dare. Whatever you think you have to say, I don't want to hear it. For Christ's sake, I can't believe you. This,” he snaps, gesturing between them, “is not what people do! You don't fake your-- your--” Strangely, John can't bring himself to say the word quite yet, the lump in his throat choking him.

Sherlock steps forward, seeming to ignore the blossoming mark on his jaw. “I'm sorry.”

“ _Don't_. Don't you dare.” John narrows his eyes, glaring with an intensity that could kill. “My god, all this time I thought-- I _mourned_ you! Do you have any idea what you put me through, what you did to me? You're sick. This is really twisted, Sherlock, this is--” The sound of the man's name on his tongue sounds almost foreign.

“I had to.” Sherlock reaches out a hand, hovering over John's forearm without actually touching him. “Please, _listen to me_. I had to do it. Moriarty-- there were snipers-- you, and Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson-- I had to. It was the last thing I wanted, but I had to,” he implores, eyes wide and pleading.

“Christ,” John exhales. He staggers toward the rather ridiculous bed, falling rather than sitting. His eyes burn and his head throbs; rubbing his temples slowly, he takes a few minutes to compose himself. “Christ, I can't--”

“John?” There's a note of panic lacing Sherlock's voice as he darts a look around, seeking help. Tentatively, he asks, “Are you alright?”

“No, I'm not bloody alright!” John bursts out, staring at the other man incredulously. “You came back. You left and now you're here and I just-- how the hell could I possibly be alright?”

“Should I... be doing something?”

John snorts in derision. “I think you've done enough, don't you?” He sighs, rubbing his face and deflating. “Just come here, will you?”

Sherlock makes his way over, every movement cautious and contemplated. He stops less than a foot away, brow furrowing when John suddenly seizes his arm and presses two fingers to the inside of his wrist. There, just beneath the skin and strong as ever, thuds Sherlock's pulse.

“You utter bastard,” John breathes, though there is no longer any heat in it. “You complete--” He swallows hard.

Sherlock watches for a long moment. “I'm hardly undead.”

“You _were_ dead.”

“A trick. I was forced--”

“So you said.” John lifts his chin, holding Sherlock's gaze. “I believe you. But you could have told me. All these years, what you let me think... you don't know how hard it's been. I've-- I've missed you so much. Every day, I--”

A beat. “I know. It was difficult for me too.”

John drops his arm, standing quickly with little regard for personal space. “Sherlock...”

“Yes?”

“I--” Unable to resist himself for a moment longer, mind full of those half-formed dreams of what he'd do if Sherlock would just _stop being dead_ , John lunges at the other man, gripping his hair and pulling them together for a hard, bruising kiss.

***

The ice melts.

At the first press of John's lips to his, the unfamiliar sensation of familiar fingers tangling in curls as he guides Sherlock's head down, Sherlock defrosts. For a long few seconds, he doesn't respond, too stunned by this turn of events to fully comprehend what is happening. As he begins to press back, lips firm against John's, a thought for John's wife flickers and dies as suddenly as it arrives.

John is the first to deepen the kiss, swiping a demanding tongue against Sherlock's mouth in an effort to get him to open up. It works, the harsh tempo melding into something deeper, more desperate and questioning. It's several long minutes before Sherlock reluctantly pulls away, panting for breath.

“John--”

“Shut up,” he orders, shoving at Sherlock's shoulders until his legs are backing against the edge of the bed. “Just shut up. Don't say anything, don't think, don't do a damn thing, alright? You owe me this. After everything... please, for once, for me.”

Sherlock's mouth goes dry. He nods, sinking onto the duvet at the lightest pressure of John's hands.

“I can't believe-- Sherlock--” John cuts off, voice cracking. As he shakes his head wordlessly, he kneels beside Sherlock, tugging him close once more for another searing kiss. “Please. Please, I need—”

Sherlock lifts a hand, cupping John's face carefully. Thankfully, this seems to be all the assent he needs.

The next few minutes are dizzying, their mouths never far from one another. Sherlock finds himself pinned down, John's tight grasp around either of his wrists. His chest burns with the need for air, but the idea of ceasing their activity is even more painful. This is what he imagined, though he never admitted it to himself. This is what Sherlock has desired for all these long years. This, _this_ is what is right.

Sherlock moans softly into the kiss, reveling in the hitch of breath this causes. Shaking free, he wraps one arm around John's waist, drawing them flush together, and brings the other hand to the collar of John's shirt. It's quick work to thumb open the buttons, and within seconds he's pressing against bare skin. Against _John_.

This is the moment, of course, when it all comes crashing down.

***

“Oh god.” John flings himself backward, putting three feet of distance between them. _What has he done?_ Jumping to his feet, John loudly exhales, pacing back and forth in front of the bed. _Mary_ , he thinks. _Oh god, Mary_. After everything, this is how he repays her loyalty?

The taste of bile is sharp in his mouth.

“Ah," Sherlock breaks through. John chances a look, stomach turning at the closed-off, blank expression that meets him. “Your... wife.”

John starts. “You know? Of course you know.” His face pinches. “I shouldn't-- this is a mistake. God, all of this...”

“Yet you don't regret it.” It's a statement, though Sherlock's tone is questioning.

“I think,” John remarks, a bitter laugh rising, “that I even miss-- _missed_ that.” He avoids Sherlock's piercing gaze.

“You love her.”

“Yes.”

There is no response.

Eventually, John carefully sits down. “Look, I--” He swallows. “I need to think. I can't-- do you have any idea what this has been like for me? I spent eighteen months devastated, barely able to sleep or eat. I still wake up screaming your name. I watched you jump to your death, right before my eyes, can you even begin to comprehend that?”

“I can never express--”

John holds up a hand. “I know. Just listen. Mary-- I love her. She knew all about you, what we almost had.” It's the first either of them has mentioned it. “She knew, and she got me back on my feet. I could work again, I could face one day after the next. I can't repay her like this. I can't...”

Something flashes across Sherlock's face. It's almost too much to stand. “Of course.”

“But that doesn't change things. It'd be easier if it did.”

They sit there, the two of them, neither man looking at the other. The silence stretches, deafening.

“Sherlock, I... two months ago, Mary told me that she was pregnant.”

***

The air leaves the room.

Sherlock can't speak, can't _think_. Pregnant?

“If things were different...” John falters. “I've spent every day since you left thinking about what I'd do if I had another chance. If _we_ did. I want--”

Thickly, Sherlock manages, “Congratulations.”

“No,” he interrupts. “It's not what you think.”

Sherlock stands, crossing to the window. “John, have pity. Spare me your domestic bliss.”

“Will you just fucking let me finish?” John explodes. He inhales sharply, closing his eyes. “Just let me... look, she went to the doctor for confirmation.”

Mentally cringing, Sherlock stares out over Mycroft's ornate gardens.

“There was no fetus.”

As he spins around, brow knitted in confusion, Sherlock waits with bated breath.

John falls quiet, downcast. “It was a tumour. Uterine cancer, stage four. It's metastasized, spread to her lung.”

“Ah.”

“Ah? I tell you this and all you can say is 'ah'?”

“John, I don't know what you want me to say.”

He waves this off. “As much as I may want to, I can't do this. You have to see that.”

“I do.” Sherlock ignores the clenching in his stomach.

Mouth tight and eyes softening, John rises and crosses to the door. “I should go. Later, tell me everything later, but I need to go. We can't... I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.”

Sherlock closes his eyes briefly. “She wouldn't have to--”

“ _No_ ,” John spits out. One hand on the doorknob, he hesitates. “No. I just can't.”

“If we--” Sherlock begins, desperate to not let this, whatever it is, slip through his fingers when he's only just received it.

“For god's sake, she's dying. Mary is _dying_. I _can't_.”

John is gone before Sherlock can gather himself enough to form a response.

 _Then,_ he tells himself, resigned to his momentary gain, _this is it_.


End file.
